I made you mountains.
I pulled on plates
of porcelain— and here
are your black lines.
And here
is some white guy;

The president of feces.

I drew him
of black lines.
Now you draw into mountains
of black lines,
shifting your conscious,
these tectonic trophies
of ash bleached
in reverse. Now
tell me, Are you high now?
Or does the prejudice of colour
make you scared now?